Against the Wall (19 page)

“No.”

Junior makes a sound of commiseration and takes a few more hits. He tries to pass me the joint, sort of absently, but he doesn't lose track of the conversation. “You can crash at my place. I have a foton.”

“A foton?”

He squints through the window, bleary-eyed. “What do you call those couch things?”

“A futon.”

“What the fuck ever,” he says. “Futon, fart-on. You know what I mean.”

I start laughing and I can't stop. Maybe I have a contact high. Maybe it's the reckless, all-too-familiar situation. Maybe it's just that we've been friends for so long and we get each other in a way that no one else does. It feels good to let down my guard. I haven't laughed like this, with complete abandon, in years.

“Who's stoned right now, you or me?” he asks.

I wipe my eyes, sobering. “I can't stay at your place.”

He doesn't argue. Lack of self-awareness has never been one of his faults. We're on different paths.

“You could go straight with me,” I say.

“
No manches
. That's not my style.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not you. I'm not an artist. I don't look like you.”

I understand his point. I can wear long-sleeved shirts to hide my tattoos. My art skills and handsome face will help keep me off the streets. Selling drugs and enforcing for the gang is the only life Junior knows.

“How did it go with those girls last night?” I ask.

He smiles at the question. “The three of us made do without you.”

I laugh again, quieter this time. His game is impressive. I'm not sorry I missed the action, though I miss his company.

“I got a problem with Eastside,” Junior says, changing the subject.

My blood runs cold. So much for letting down my guard.

“Word on the street is you're doing Oscar's chick.”

“Word on the street is bullshit.”

“That's not what she said.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah. I talked to her.”

I can't dispute the truth, so I stay quiet.

“If you're going to fuck the
heina
of the guy you killed, you have to keep it on the DL. Oscar's brother saw you chatting her up on the street.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“Omar came around to holler at some of my boys. He says you owe him a car.”

Omar Reyes is Oscar's little brother. If anyone owes him a car, it's Junior. He's the one who peppered Oscar's car with bullets. I was targeted for payback just because I was involved, and Junior was in jail at the time. The agreement I made with Oscar was for an old-school throwdown. If I lost, I'd give him my car but keep my honor.

We both ended up losing. He lost his life; I lost my freedom. And now Omar is seeking retribution.

“This is fucked up,” I say.

“I'll take care of it for you,” Junior says.

His way of taking care of things when we were younger involved hard-core beatings. Now I think it might involve disappearances. I can't be a part of that. “No.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I study the pieces of my Chevelle, my eyes narrow. The thought of fixing her up for someone else makes my stomach churn with resentment. I didn't destroy Oscar's car and I don't owe his brother anything. I gave up three good years already. I spent my twenty-first birthday in prison. I had to abandon my grandmother, April, Jenny…Meghan. I'm still paying the price, denying myself happiness.

“I'm not with Noemi,” I say. “I wasn't planning on seeing her again, and I'm not giving Omar a fucking thing.”

Junior nods his approval. “Fuck him.”

“You think he'll come after me?”

“He might.”

“How big is he?”

“Bigger than you,
chapulin
. But younger and stupider.”

That combination doesn't reassure me. Young, stupid gang members are the most likely to make mistakes. I should know.

If I was still active in CVL or La Eme, Omar would need permission to take me down. But I went straight, so I'm considered a sucker, a
leva,
unworthy of protection. Omar can target me without repercussions. La Eme might even encourage him. Blood in, blood out. You have to spill some to become a member, and shed some to walk away.

“Watch your back,” Junior says.

“I always do.”

After he leaves, I lay down in the shade, tucking my arms behind my head. Meghan's letter burns a hole in my pocket and memories from last night wash over me. I can't have her again, and that fucking sucks. I'm tired of being alone. Tired of denying myself pleasure and keeping my distance. But I can survive without her. I can move on. I have my car, and my art, and a job I like. For the first time in years, I'm looking forward to the future.

Or I was, until Omar threatened to take it from me.

I'm not busting my ass to rebuild my Chevelle for nothing. I'm nobody's bitch. I still have my balls.

More balls than sense, maybe.

I thought I could go straight, earn a living as an artist. I guess I was kidding myself. Now I feel like I'm right back where I started, trapped in the role I was born to play.

Once a thug, always a thug.

I don't know what I'm going to do, but I know I have to be careful. Three years ago, Oscar and his crew tracked me down at April's house. They said nasty things about her and made veiled threats. Omar and his Eastside buddies might try the same tactic with Meghan. Until this issue is resolved, everyone around me will be at risk.

I rise to my feet and take her letter out of my pocket. Then I turn on the welding torch and light it up. As flames lick across the page, reducing her heartfelt words to ashes, one sentence catches my attention:

I still love you.

I drop it before my fingers get singed, stomping the blaze into dirt.

Eric doesn't come to me that night.

Or the next.

Or the next.

I've hardly seen him since Sunday morning. He leaves early and stays out late. He seems more on edge, more aloof than ever. When April asked me what's going on with him, I told her I didn't know.

On Wednesday night I have to volunteer at the women's resource center with Kelsea. I trudge inside the building and collapse in a chair next to her. The strap from my messenger bag is digging into my shoulder, so I ease it over my head and rub the tender spot.

“How'd it go?” Kelsea asks.

“C plus.”

“You passed,” she says, giving me a high five.

I slap my palm against hers gamely. Average grades are nothing to celebrate, but I'll take this one. I did well on all of my other midterms and I'm still on track to graduate with honors in June. What I'll do after finals is the question. If I'm going to apply for another program, I need to get my ass in gear.

I don't want to get my ass in gear, though. I'm not ready to face the future. I haven't decided what to do with my life. Years ago, I remember telling Noah that I needed to find myself. He looked at me like I was crazy. He's always known who he is, what he wants, and where he's going. Things just fall into place for him.

That hasn't happened for me.

I'm about to become a real adult with a college degree, and I still don't know who I am. I'm afraid I'll never know.

“Have you talked to Eric?” she asks.

I shake my head, sighing. I'm having existential-crisis issues
and
love-life problems. “He's avoiding me.”

Kelsea screws up her face in confusion. “What's his deal?”

“He got what he wanted.”

“I don't think so,” she says. “I saw the photo from the beach. He wanted to bite your neck and make a claim on you.”

I shiver at the thought of his teeth on my skin. Although I didn't give Kelsea a play-by-play of our night together, she's not too far off the mark. Eric was possessive in bed, even aggressive. But he kept things purely sexual. No promises, no emotions.

“We can't do it again.”

“Because of your brother?”

“That's one reason.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No.”

Noah and April came home from their weekend retreat looking very satisfied. He's been in a good mood ever since. I can't ask him to accept Eric as my boyfriend, though. Noah barely accepts him as a boarder. There's no way Noah would allow us to sleep together under his roof. He's not
that
progressive.

I'm not sure Eric wants to have a relationship with me, either. He seemed to regret our encounter almost as much as he enjoyed it.

“So you're just going to give up on him?” Kelsea asks.

“What do you expect me to do, jump on him?”

“It worked the last time.”

“I can't keep hooking up with him and not get my heart broken.”

“Can he?”

“Maybe not.”

“That's why he's avoiding you.”

I shrug, looking away. I'm not going to assume he cares about me the same way I care about him. He could be avoiding me out of respect for April and Noah, or for other reasons. His emotions are a mystery to me.

Everything of mine is off-limits
.

“You have to tell him how you feel,” she says.

I rake a hand through my hair, flustered. I feel lost, vulnerable, rejected…again. Even though he told me flat out that we can't be together, I opened myself up to hope. I laid myself bare to him.

I
masturbated
in front of him.

I thought he'd want to finish what we started that morning. I've been losing sleep, waiting for him to come to me.

“The ball's in his court,” I say.

“The balls are in his pants,” she replies, making me laugh. “Play to your strengths.”

For the next few hours, we focus on volunteer duties. It's a quiet night. The college authorities beefed up security after the second vandalism strike. A uniformed guard is patrolling the immediate area and new cameras are doing continual surveillance.

“Is there any creepmail?” I ask Kelsea.

“Just this,” she says. She shows me the screen on her phone. There's a recent comment on our photo from the hike:
I'll get you next time your out.

“You should report that to the detectives.”

“I should report it to the grammar police, too.”

“I'm serious.”

She takes a screenshot of the anonymous threat and forwards it to the cybercrimes unit. We lock up the center at the end of the shift and go our separate ways. I promise to text her when I get home. Then I head across campus, my fists tucked into the pockets of my jacket. It's a cool night with wispy clouds over a full moon. The parking lot is deserted. I cross the space quickly and try to stay alert. You can never be too careful.

I'm about twenty feet away from my car when I realize that it's been vandalized. I stop in my tracks, mouth open. Someone wrapped toilet paper around my hood and tires.
JUST SLUTS
is scrawled across the back window in what appears to be shaving cream.

This is unbelievable.

I glance around the mostly empty space. It's late, and there are no other students around. My heart races with panic. I feel like whoever did this is watching me, waiting for my reaction. Although I want to stride forward, giving the vandal the finger, I hesitate. The parking lot is flanked by thick shrubbery on one side. There are about a dozen empty cars scattered around, the interiors dark and silent.

I'm too scared to move. I'll have to clean off my windows before I can drive away. He could be lurking nearby, ready to attack me. I decide to walk to the nearest emergency booth. Although I hate retreating and revealing my fears, I have to go with my gut. I don't feel safe here, with no people around and multiple hiding places for an assailant.

Pulse racing, I call security. I'm told to wait in the booth for the next available guard, who should be with me in a few minutes. I mutter thanks and hang up, feeling jittery. Then I call Kelsea to tell her what happened.

“I'll be right there,” she says.

I don't argue with her. I want her to see the mess, and there's safety in numbers. I put my phone in my pocket, glancing around. With each second that ticks by, my tension grows. The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle in awareness.

Something's wrong.

The previous graffiti incidents happened overnight while we were off campus. This is more daring, more personal. There's a heart on the side of my door with a jagged line through it. I picture the Barbie dolls from the last attack, locked in an embrace, hair cut to resemble me and Kelsea. The wedding theme of the current vandalism makes warning bells ring inside my head. This person seems to have a fixation on us, as if we're a couple.

“Oh my God,” I say, leaving the booth.

He could be watching
Kelsea
. Waiting for
her
to come out.

I drop my bag and run, as fast as I can, toward the tree-lined path leading from the parking lot to the dorm. By the time I reach it, she's at the top of a concrete stairway, ready to descend.

And she's not alone.

There's a man crouched in the bushes nearby. I scream as loud as I can, still running. Whatever he's planned, I've interrupted—but I can't prevent what happens next. He bursts out of his hiding place and Kelsea startles, stumbling sideways. She loses her footing and careens down the stairs in a horrifying tumble.

The man at the top of the steps is nothing but a dark figure, backlit by a streetlamp. He's wearing a hood. I can't make out his features or any identifying characteristics. He sprints through the trees and disappears in seconds.

Kelsea crumples into a heap and lies motionless at the foot of the stairs. Her hair is wet with blood. I rush forward and sink to my knees, sobbing for her to wake up.

Please wake up.

She stays unconscious, her head lolled to one side.

“Help me,” I scream, tears streaming down my face. “Somebody help me!”

Two girls run out of the dorm and join us. They call 911. A security guard shows up about a minute later. Kelsea moans when he checks her vital signs.

She's alive.

“Thank God,” I say, over and over again.

Please…let her be okay.

Paramedics arrive and load her onto a stretcher. She's still out of it, unresponsive. They won't let me go with her. I call Noah, weeping hysterically. Campus security and a couple of different police officers question me about everything. My car, the resource center, Kelsea, the vandalism.

They search the surrounding area for the perpetrator.

When Noah appears beside me, I'm shaking with tension. He takes me to the hospital where Kelsea has been admitted. Matthew and Kelsea's brother, Braden, are sitting in the waiting room. Matthew stands and puts his arms around me. My eyes fill with tears again.

“I'm so sorry,” I say.

“Shh,” he says, patting my hair. “You might have saved her life.”

I feel responsible for her accident, even though I was trying to warn her. I release him and wipe my cheeks. “How is she?”

“Asleep.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“They think she'll be fine, but we have to wait and see.”

He exchanges a glance with Noah that I can't read. They leave me with Braden and walk away for a private conversation. I assume they're talking about who might have targeted Kelsea, and what they'd like to do to him.

More detectives come to interview me. I wish I could give a better description of the assailant. I'm not sure I can call him an assailant, either. He never touched her. I have no idea what he was doing in the bushes. He had on dark clothing, and he was much taller than Kelsea. Chip's name gets mentioned a few times, but he had an away game tonight in San Jose, so he's been eliminated as a suspect.

I return to the waiting room, distraught. There's no worse feeling than not knowing if my best friend is going to wake up. I wish I could do something to help, but I can't. I'm trapped in an endless loop of guilt and worry.

I've been sitting there for about two hours when Eric walks into the lobby. Noah and Matthew seem just as surprised as I am by Eric's sudden appearance. I jump out of my chair and rush toward him. “How did you get here?”

“I rode Noah's bike.”

“That's a long way to ride a bike.”

He shrugs, studying my face. “Is she okay?”

“She's asleep. We have to wait and see.” My voice breaks on the last word. I swallow hard, fighting tears again.

His eyes darken at the sight of my distress. I want to pull away, to hide my emotions, but he slides his hand around my neck and brings me forward, cradling my head against his shoulder. I let him do it, despite the audience. Because I need him to hold me, more than I've ever needed anything.

He's taken a risk by coming here to comfort me under Noah's watchful gaze. Eric releases me after a moment to greet the others. Then we sit down together and wait. Noah gives me a dark look, but he doesn't say anything. This isn't the time or place to interrogate me about our relationship. I don't have answers to the questions he'd ask, anyway.

The night seems endless. Noah uses his cop influence to gain as much information as possible. The suspect hasn't been caught or identified. They're going over surveillance footage and searching for other evidence, including fingerprints from my car. Noah theorizes that the man in the shadows manipulated me into luring Kelsea outside.

Maybe he'd planned to drag her away somewhere.

Noah walks outside to take a phone call, and I can't sit still any longer. I approach the vending machines and stare at the snacks inside, feeling empty. Eric joins me. I'm afraid to meet his eyes and break down again, so I study the silver chain around his neck. I haven't prayed in a long time, though religion was a huge part of my upbringing. When I left home and dropped out of the Christian university, I closed the door on that chapter of my life.

“Do you still believe in God?” I ask.

“Yes.”

We had this conversation before he went to prison. I was questioning my faith. I still am. It's hard to know what you believe when you don't know who you
are
. “Can you say a prayer for Kelsea?”

He nods, taking the cross out from underneath the collar of his shirt. I link hands with him, because that's how we did it in my congregation. He clears his throat, hesitant. “I don't know any in English.”

“Say one in Spanish.”

He begins, after a pause. I recognize the Lord's Prayer even though the words are foreign.
“Nuestro Padre, que estás en los cielos, santificado sea tu nombre…”

The sound of his voice and the cadence of the familiar prayer comfort me. It seems unrelated to any of my previous experiences, not weighted by smothering expectations. After he's finished, I squeeze his hand in gratitude.

Noah returns from his phone call and we break apart as if we've been caught kissing instead of praying.

“I should go,” Eric says.

I nod my agreement and thank him for coming. The situation is difficult enough without the extra tension. My brother is in overprotective cop mode. We're all on edge, hoping for the best but anticipating the worst.

An ER doctor brings good news a few minutes later. Kelsea is awake, and lucid. There's no bleeding or swelling in the brain. She has a contusion and could be groggy for several days, but she should make a full recovery.

Matthew hasn't shown much emotion, perhaps because he wanted to stay strong for Braden, who's only fourteen. But his control slips as soon as the doctor finishes speaking. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose to stanch the tears. I hug him again, feeling his shoulders quake.